


We Happy Three

by Gemi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse of italics, Fat Shaming, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, We Happy Few AU, by which i mean this is mean season 1 simmons so he got Opinions, cursing, logrimmons, lowkey insane Grif
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: Why did he go off his Joy? What kind of idiot does that? He had been perfectly happy, if you ignored Gene constantly trying to convince everyone he was a Downer just because Gene wanted his office. Gene fucking sucked, but everything else had been perfect! There had been rainbow painted streets, a lot of smiling, he had no stupid fucking anxiety and when you threw up it looked like butterflies and-Oh yeah.Right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the game "We Happy Few", which I have personally not played but loved watching others play. Joy is a drug that makes you Insanely Happy, and Wastrels are those who had bad reactions to Joy, while Downers (Simmons) are those who simply stopped taking Joy. And Simmons is having a Very Bad Day.

“Gimme your socks, and I’ll help you,” the Wastrel says and Simmons immediately tucks his feet under him, because _no_. No. He had a _bad_ day, the worst day, and these are his best socks. His _only_ socks now! He doesn’t want to give them to a guy who looks like he hasn't showered in a month, maybe a _year_. Someone who looks like their own clothes are trying to crawl away to the safety of a washer. His socks deserve a better fate than that.   
_  
  
How_ did this become his life?  
  
Of course he knows _how_. A better question is _why_.  
  
Why did he go off his Joy? What kind of idiot does that? He had been perfectly happy, if you ignored Gene constantly trying to convince everyone he was a Downer just because Gene wanted _his_ office. Gene fucking sucked, but everything else had been perfect! There had been rainbow painted streets, a lot of smiling, he had no stupid fucking _anxiety_ and when you threw up it looked like butterflies and-  
  
Oh yeah.  
  
Right.  
  
Simmons covers his mouth and gags as he remembers his breakfast. What should have been his breakfast, that is, except he had forgotten to take his Joy and what he had thought would be a wonderful sandwich with ham and cheese turned out to not be. He had almost eaten a _rotting_ \--!  
  
“What, you don’t want my help? They’re socks, you telling me your socks are more important than your life?” The Wastrel asks, and oh god, he’s closer. Simmons shuffles away until his back hits the wall, the _moldy_ wall, and oh that is so gross. It made a _sound_.  
  
“N-no! Why do _you_ want socks, anyway? You don’t even have shoes!” he says instead, even though he wants to shuffle away from the wall now, except there’s no space to shuffle anymore. The Wastrel is too close for that and Simmons is _trapped_.  
  
“You can use socks for other things, idiot,” the Wastrel sniffs, and what does that even _mean_? What things? What fucking things, what the fuck? “Like, why even put them on your feet? What a waste. C’mon, give them to me.”   
  
The Wastrel holds out one hand. It’s filthy. It’s so dirty. So, so dirty, and yet Simmons saw the guy stuff a whole apple into his mouth using those dirty hands and how has the guy not died from food poisoning?  
  
“What’s your name?” Simmons blurts out. Buying time, totally. He has to save his socks. He’s got no Joy, his shoes are scuffed, his hair is a _mess_ and all he’s got are his socks now.  
  
The Wastrel blinks at him.  
  
“Uh,” the Wastrel says, like he’s _struggling_. “Grif. What’s yours? Nerd? Wimp? Carrot?”  
  
“... why would my name be _any_ of those? Why would it be _Carrot_?”  
  
“Because you’re all lanky and weird with orange hair, duh.”  
  
“Orange?” Simmons splutters, “it’s _ginger_! It’s red! It’s a _great_ hair color and my name is _Simmons!_ ”  
  
“Right,” Grif says, doubtfully. As if Simmons is the crazy one, “Yeah, whatever. Gimme your socks.”  
  
“WHY!”  
  
“Because I fucking _want_ them, and you want to stay alive!” Grif shouts back, and he gestures so wildly that a rotting potato flies out of his other hand and smacks into the gross, moldy wall behind Simmons and, again, _what the fuck_?  
  
Grif points at the potato.  
  
“Give that back too.”  
  
“But it’s _rotten_ ,” Simmons squeaks out.  
  
“Yeah so give it back? And your socks.”  
  
“Why do you even- I just- _why_. What are you going to _use them for you- you-!”  
  
_ “Why do you even care, dude? Just. Like.” Grif gestures some more. “Fucking hand them over.”  
  
“ARGH,” Simmons yells and tugs off his shoes and throws the socks right at Grif’s stupid, dirty face. He immediately regrets it, of course, and tries to scramble up to Grif to snatch them back.  
  
Except the Wastrel _bites the air_ and Simmons screams and hurriedly scrambles back into the moldy, toothless wall because what the _fuck_.  
  
“Yeah, thought so,” Grif cackles and sticks his grubby hands into them, like they’re mittens. It’s summer. There is no _need_ for mittens! And he’s not going to put them on his feet! The mittens would be a waste, especially because they are beautiful, perfect socks that belongs on feet! _Simmons’_ feet, to be exact, and he hates _everything_.  
  
“Locus gonna love these,” Grif says, like that makes even more sense. But before Simmons can even ask about why a _bug_ would love his beautiful, poor, doomed socks, Grif looks straight at Simmons. His eyes are almost not crazy, but the keyword is almost and Simmons leans as far back as he can.  
  
He quickly leans forward when he realizes the moldy wall might actually make his _hair_ moldy, which is definitely worse than being killed and eaten by the Wastrel before him. He badly wants to drag his hands through his hair just to be _sure_ , but what if Grif tries to bite the air again? Nope. Just nope. That’s just too fucking freaky and, again, _why_ did he go off his Joy? Right. Right.  
  
Sandwich.  
  
“Okay, well, if you don’t want the weirdos outside to, y’know, kill you, you gotta look less weird,” Grif tells him in a condescending, stupid tone, as if _he_ isn’t the weird one, “just rip up your clothes or something. Done.” He gestures towards the door. The locked door, where all the angry thumping is coming from. “Now leave, carrot.”  
  
“It’s Simmons and _that’s it?_ Just- just rip up my clothes? That would be a waste! A huge fucking waste! Why would I want to rip up my clothes, they’re _meant_ to be whole!” he says and looks down at his suit. He got it from his _grandma_. His grandma would rise from the _dead_ and murder him herself if he tore it up, even if it was just an accident. She wouldn’t care! And if he tore it up on purpose, holy _shit_ no.  
  
“Sure. Okay. Then go outside and let the psychos rip it apart as they rip _you_ apart,” Grif says and tugs the socks (his poor socks!) off of his hands, stuffing them down _somewhere_. His clothes are such a mess that the only thing Simmons is sure about is that his shirt is orange, and honestly? That’s a stretch. That’s the biggest stretch, it might as well be a light brown. A rotting orange brown. A brown orange. It’s _bad_. There might not even be any pockets and if so, _where_ did his socks go?  
  
Simmons’ suit is nice and black and white with a _tie_ and he actually managed to tie it properly this morning, too, before the sandwich incident. It’s not on straight _now_ , of course, but no one can blame him for that! He is off his Joy, how the _fuck_ is he meant to keep his tie straight then? Everything is _stupid_.  
  
And now he has to tear his nice, perfectly fine suit apart and oh my _god_ , he hates everything.  
  
Except when he takes off the suit jacket and _tries_ , the fabric doesn’t even. Tear. He fucking _tries_ , but it _refuses_ to tear, and he can _hear_ Grif snickering.  
  
“Stop it!” he snaps, and throws the stupid, rotting (gross!!!) potato at Grif’s stupid, fucking head.  
  
Grif catches it with his mouth because of fucking course he does.  
  
“You’re _weak_ ,” Grif snickers and takes an actual bite out of the potato, what is he made of. What is his _stomach_ made of? Is this a Wastrel thing? Do they have different anatomy? What. How.  
  
Oh no, Simmons thinks, is _he_ going to have to eat rotting potatoes now? That’s like only half a step better than his stupid _sandwich_. Holy fuck, _no_.  
  
“Need help?” Grif asks, so mockingly that Simmons almost grabs the stupid potato right out of his stupid mouth, just to show him. But he doesn’t, because Grif bites the air and steals peoples’ _socks_ and eats rotten food like it’s the best thing _ever_.  
  
And Grif _still_ isn’t as scary as the Wastrels outside, who are still banging on the door to the house and being just generally terrifying.  
  
“No!” Simmons snaps and _yanks_ , and the fabric finally tears. He rips one sleeve right off, and he almost wants to cry when he sees it. He ruined it. He actually ripped his suit. He _ripped a whole arm off_. Now everyone will see his stupid arms! All the Wastrels are skinnier than him, of course, except for stupid fucking Grif (and what is up with _that_? Why is _he_ fat?) but that just means that now they know he’s almost as skinny as them! They will _eat him alive_.  
  
Because if Grif eats rotten food, then of course that has to mean all those stories about cannibalistic Wastrels were true. Like. That’s the only logical thing.  
  
Maybe he will be skinny enough that he isn’t worth eating? That’s a thing, right? Maybe that’s why Grif isn’t eating him. Holy shit, does Grif eat people?  
  
“Do you _eat people_?” he asks. It comes out like a screech, way louder than he wanted to make it, so loud even the Wastrel jumps and almost chokes on his gross, gross potato.  
  
“Huh, no? What the _fuck_ , Cinnamon, why would I do that?” Grif asks him, all bewildered and wide eyed and yeah, okay, maybe Grif is actually harmless. Maybe.  
  
“You steal socks! I don’t know, maybe that’s human eating behavior,” Simmons rambles and yanks off a button from the jacket and that hurts _too_. Like, literally. The thread that held it in place actually cut into his hand and it’s worse than a _paper cut_.  
  
Simmons will die here. He just knows it. He’s off his Joy and his suit is torn apart, his socks are _gone_ and a maybe-orange-shirt wearing Wastrel is acting like _he_ is the insane one. A Wastrel that _still_ doesn’t know his _name_!  
  
“First of all, you _threw_ your socks. At me! That’s not stealing, you idiot. That’s you giving me your socks, but rudely. Second of all!”  
  
Grif stops talking and takes another bite from his potato.  
  
Simmons sticks his bleeding finger in his mouth because shit, that hurts and he doesn’t want _blood_ on his clothes. They have been through _enough_.  
  
Except after a moment he realizes Grif isn’t going to finish his own sentence. His _own sentence_. That he _started_.  
  
“Second of all WHAT, Grif!?” Simmons yells and throws the button at him.  
  
Grif goes cross eyed when it bounces against his nose.  
  
“What the fuck, why did you do that?” he asks, annoyed, and Simmons doesn’t know what to _say_. He tries to say _something_ , but this is so fucking weird that he can’t even form _words_. He yanks another button and throws it at Grif, too, because _fuck him_.  
  
“Hey!” Grif says and throws his half-eaten potato at Simmons.  
  
Suddenly there’s a mad scramble, because he does not want _that_ on him, and apparently Grif _really_ wants the potato back, and he’s _on top of Simmons_ and he’s _heavy_ and _dirty_ and Simmons screams and flails and then it’s all over.  
  
Except instead of being at a, like, comfortable distance away from Simmons, he’s now sitting right next to him. Eating. His potato. That is _dirty_ , now, too. With mold, probably, and oh _fuck no_.  
  
“You tore my suit!” Simmons shrieks as he looks down at himself. Like, yeah, he had begun to tear at his jacket, but now his pants got tears too, and his shirt is a _mess_ and a _third_ button disappeared? He only wanted to tear his _jacket_. He probably got bruises now, too! “You tore my suit, what the _fuck_.”   
  
“Oh, good,” Grif replies and chews loudly in Simmons ear.  
  
Simmons shrieks and scrambles away, he doesn’t _care_ if his pants gets more torn from that, okay, he doesn’t _care_. Except he left his jacket by Grif, of course he did, and Simmons groans in his new corner and hides his face.  
  
“I hate you,” he tells Grif.  
  
“Whatever,” Grif replies, and everything _sucks._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some vomit!

Simmons doesn’t know _how_ , but he somehow fell asleep.  
  
Maybe it was all the running he did. Maybe it was puking over evil sandwiches and Joy and maybe it was being almost _killed_. Maybe he had good reasons to fall asleep! Except they’re not good enough, because Simmons fell asleep in a moldy house with a _Wastrel_ that stole his socks and now he woke up to the Wastrel _puking_.  
  
He watches Grif puke, and he really badly wants Joy back. Then the puke would look great! It would look like butterflies and hearts and sparkles, not… not the _sludge_ that is splattering against the floor and ooooh, that is so fucking gross.  
  
“You’re so fucking gross,” he tells Grif.  
  
“Blergh,” Grif replies, and pukes some more. Simmons gags. He gags but he doesn’t throw up, which is like five times better than before he fell asleep! Maybe he _will_ survive out here, in the wilderness of maniacs and rotten potatoes.  
  
 _Rotten potatoes_.  
  
“Oh _wow_ , no wonder you’re throwing up! See, that’s why you shouldn’t eat rotten food! This is totally because you stole my socks, you evil… Wastrel. Thing. Yeah! Stop throwing up, it’s gross,” Simmons says, because it really, seriously is. And he doesn’t want to leave the stupid house, even if the thumping against the door has stopped. Who _knows_ what’s waiting out there. Maybe the Wastrels outside put a trap down for him. Maybe skinny redheads are a delicacy out here.   
  
So the only solution is to make Grif stop puking his guts out.  
  
Grif turn his head towards him. His eyes are glassy and Simmons winces as Grif wipes his chin.  
  
“Shut up,” the Wastrel groans and then flops onto his back. He doesn’t even try to get away from his own gross sludge-vomit, he just _flops over_. His mess is right by his feet- his bare, dirty feet, no socks or shoes or anything on them- and he just. Stays there.  
  
Simmons shudders.  
  
Simmons stares nervously at his jacket, which is way too close to the Wastrel and the Mess.  
  
Then he realizes that Grif really, seriously isn’t moving.  
  
“Uh,” he says. “Are you _dead_?”  
  
Grif groans. That might be him talking zombie, though, and Simmons tries to convince himself he shouldn’t get closer. Because he shouldn’t. Grif is an insane Wastrel, who ate bad food and threw up because he _deserved it_. Simmons definitely shouldn’t check up on him.  
  
Simmons inches closer. Because Simmons is obviously insane too, what with choosing to not take Joy. Insane, that’s what, totally. It has to be.  
  
Simmons is close enough to touch Grif. He poke him in the shoulder. Very carefully, because Grif’s shirt is dirty and torn and gross and if it _isn’t_ food poisoning, then Simmons doesn’t want whatever he got.  
  
Grif swats his hand away and yeah, okay, he’s still alive.  
  
“You suck,” he tells Grif, and reaches over to tug his jacket off to a safe distance from the sludge-vomit, “You’re not allowed to die, I can’t leave this stupid house, and they will _totally_ think I killed you if I try! There’s, uh. There has to be clean water here, right?”  
  
There had to be- Simmons knows that the water in the City was drugged up with Joy, just to make sure people _really_ took it, but of course the pills were always the best- but the water out _here_ can’t be drugged. There were Downers and Wastrels and whatever people had to drink, it wasn’t bad water.  
  
And this was a house, so just _maybe_ the plumbing would actually work?  
  
“You’re too fat for me to move you,” he tells Grif, because he fucking is. Not that he knows where he would even _move_ Grif- there is no bed in sight, just a shitty floor and shitty walls and Simmons’ now useless buttons, looking all sad on the floor right by the sludge.  
  
He gags.  
  
Grif wheezes a laugh.  
  
“You’re so wimpy,” he says, but it comes out like a croak, the kind of croak that a toad would be proud of. Simmons wrinkles his nose at him.  
  
“Fuck you,” he tells Grif, and gets up and _definitely_ ignores the delirious giggling from the stupid, sick Wastrel. Water is good for when you’re sick, Simmons knows _that_ at least. Maybe warmth, too, he can totally make a fire. He’s manly. Yup. It’s manly to make a fire, and he knows how to do that.  
  
Totally.  
  
Simmons swallows and okay, the house is pretty small. There’s the room they were in, that was maybe a hallway once upon a time. And there’s a shitty kitchen where literally everything is broken- how did someone break the stove like _that_? What the fuck? Did Grif _sit on it_? - and not even the sink works. So Simmons moves into the next room even as he grabs a chipped teacup that sits sadly on the kitchen counter, and the next room is a bathroom with _no door_.  
  
He really is far away from civilisation. No door! For a bathroom! What kind of _maniac_ would rip off a door to a bathroom?  
  
But the sink _does_ work there, and the teacup is tiny but at least it’s not leaking, so he fills it with water that looks and smells clean.   
  
Grif hasn’t moved. Grif looks deader than before, all labored breathing and groaning sounds and _suspicious_ sounds from his stomach, and Simmons really fucking hopes that the Wastrel won’t throw up on _him_.  
  
Then the probably-cannibals outside would be way more preferable. It’s enough to have lost everything that mattered in one day, he doesn’t want to get covered in puke as well.  
  
Simmons kneels by Grif and then nervously shakes him.  
  
“Sit up, fatass,” he says, and Grif groans louder than before, “you have to drink and if you drink it laying down, you’ll _drown_ ,” Simmons tells him.  
  
“Urgh,” Grif replies. Squints up at Simmons. “Go away. I want _Locus_. Not… not a carrot, urgh. Carrots are the fucking _worst_.”  
  
“Bitch,” Simmons hisses, “Sit up! I’m trying to- to be nice!”  
  
“The socks are _mine_ ,” Grif mumbles and slowly sits up, and Simmons huffs and helps him, just a little. Like. He maybe steadies him, just to make sure Grif won’t projectile vomit at him or something worse.  
  
“I don’t care about the socks,” he says, except he totally does, but a quick glance still doesn’t tell him where they _are_. “Just drink your fucking water, jerk.”  
  
Grif sniffles. Grif _burps_ , the kind that smells so bad that Simmons gags and almost throws up, is so close to it, except he _can’t_. He can’t give in like this, Grif would call him a wimp again and he can’t _win_.  
  
But Grif also doesn’t lift his arms, and Simmons hisses a curse and raises the teacup of hopefully-clean-water to his lips. Grif drinks it. Half of it actually makes it into his mouth.  
  
He’s a mess, but honestly the water that spills down his chin and onto his clothes might actually make his clothes _cleaner_. It might just be Simmons hoping for a miracle, but still.  
  
“Good,” he says, and then Grif flops down so heavily that he _crushes_ Simmons’ hand under him, and the curses that slips out from him aren’t hissed. They’re _yelled_ , but Grif doesn’t move, and Simmons throws more curses at him as he tries to yank himself free.  
  
He manages, eventually. Almost sends him flying towards the sludge-vomit pile, though, and Simmons gags again and hurries back onto his feet.  
  
“I’m cold,” Grif whines.  
  
“I hate you _so much_ ,” Simmons tells him and goes to get some supplies.  
  
He doesn’t find much, but he finds enough. The house is falling apart, with its moldy walls and broken doors and _crushed_ stoves. But he finds enough wood and enough kindle and even two rocks to at least make a small fire. It’s tiny, the tiniest thing he has seen, but it’s better than nothing and as such Grif should _stop whining_.  
  
Grif doesn’t stop whining.  
  
“It’s too small, Locus is way better at this than you,” he whines, and Simmons considers snatching back the dirty pillow he found, the one he let Grif use. He could use it to _smother_ him. It would be amazing. Blessed silence.  
  
“I don’t care if your weird imaginary bug friend can make a better fire!” he snaps back and pokes the fire with a stick, making it crackle. And then Simmons uses his foot to push Grif away from the fire when the fat idiot tries to get _closer to it_. “And don’t put yourself on fire! I _told_ you, you can’t die! Not yet. Definitely not in a fire _inside a house_ ,” he hisses.  
  
Grif groans and flips over onto his side, and he almost looks alright like that, with the fire lighting up his face. Looks less _dirty_ , more like the shadows are playing tricks with his stupid face. His brown eyes almost looks golden in this light, actually.  
  
“Locus isn’t imaginary,” Grif slurs.  
  
Simmons scoffs.  
  
“You’re going to use my socks for questionable things! You gave yourself _food poisoning_. Of course Locus is imaginary.”  
  
And then a man drops out of _fucking nowhere_.  
  
He drops down in the space between Simmons and Grif. Like it was planned. Like it’s _normal_.  
  
Simmons screams.  
  
Grif tiredly cheers.  
  
“What the _fuck!_ ” Simmons shrieks and scrambles away, and oh _fuck_ , he knew he should have grabbed the broken pipe he saw, oh god he’s going to die and _Grif_ is going to die even after Simmons made him a _fire_! He worked to keep Grif alive, and now they’re both going to die and where the fuck did this man _come from!?  
  
_ “Where did you come from!?” he shrieks and grabs a piece of rotten wood that literally falls apart as he raises it as a weapon. _Useless_.  
  
The man stares. The man then flicks his eyes upwards, and Simmons follows that line and oh. _Oh_. So that’s why they’re not suffocating on smoke from the fire, there’s a _hole_ in the roof. A hole more than big enough to let the big (huge! he’s _enormous_ ) man through.  
  
“Locus,” Grif says, and what.  
  
What.  
  
“ _Locus_?” Simmons echoes.  
  
The man kneels down and tugs off a glove and puts his hand on Grif’s forehead and _what the fuck_. Locus is real. Locus isn’t some creepy bug, he’s a giant man with a creepy scar on his face and long hair that is, somehow, clean, and what the _fuck_.  
  
He also has a big and very, very real gun strapped to his back. And _two_ knives in his belt.  
  
Holy shit, Grif isn’t the murderer. _Locus_ is. Locus is- is-  
  
“Stop eating food I didn’t give you,” Locus says and then he sits back and puts down a bag next to him and there’s food in the bag. Actual food, and Simmons drops the useless wood he held and nervously inches closer, because that’s _food_. He hasn’t eaten anything for more than a day because of the Sandwich.  
  
Locus turns his head and stares, and Simmons freezes.  
  
“Sit,” the terrifying man says, and Simmons sits right on a button. It digs into his buttcheek, but he is too afraid to move, because when Locus spoke, his voice _rumbled_. He has a rumbling voice. _Terrifying_.  
  
“What did he eat?” Locus says, and somehow ignores it when Grif crawls closer and puts his face in Locus’ lap. Simmons gapes.  
  
“What did he _eat_?” Locus repeats, sharper, and Simmons blinks.  
  
“Uh. Um. Socks,” he blurts out.  
  
Locus frowns.  
  
“I mean! I mean, he ate a rotten potato, that is, but he _also_ stole my socks! So yeah! Can… I mean. He can. Keep them.”  
  
Would Locus _kill_ him if he tried to get his socks back? He looks like a guy who would kill someone over socks. And Grif just face planted into his lap, like Locus _isn’t_ screaming murder with his entire _thing_. His entire _being_.  
  
Locus pats Grif’s head and holy fuck, is this a dream? A nightmare? How can some weirdo like Grif even _know_ someone like Locus. He doesn’t even look like a Wastrel, he looks- he looks like…  
  
“Are you a Downer?” Simmons asks, and he really, really needs to stop blurting things out. His mouth sucks. His mouth _betrays_ him, constantly, always.  
  
Locus pulls out an apple from the bag. It’s shiny and red-green and kind of lumpy, the way wild grown apples are. Simmons swallows back drool, because _he_ is not a gross Wastrel. He has some manners left in him, alright.  
  
“Yes,” Locus says and bites the apple. It crunches.   
  
Simmons whines before he can help it.  
  
Locus eyes him critically. Grif giggles into his lap.  
  
“I got you socks, Locus,” he slurs, and what. No. _No_.  
  
Simmons forgets all about hunger and can feel his face grow hot as he glares daggers at Grif’s stupid, sweaty face.  
  
“You _stole them_!” he hisses, and Locus shifts and oh, wow, okay. That’s bad. Simmons hurriedly leans back.  
  
“Give them back,” Locus says and takes another bite of his apple. And that is not at all what Simmons expected, and he _really_ doesn’t expect Grif to turn his head and pout at Locus. Locus who has been around for like five minutes and is _already_ the scariest thing in the whole Wastrel infected area. In the whole _world_.  
  
“But I got them for _you_ ,” Grif whines. “They’re nice! See?” and he tugs them out of his… _somewhere_ (please don’t be his ass, oh god no) and waves them in Locus’ face.  
  
“They are too small,” Locus replies.  
  
Grif starts giggling.  
  
“Carrot got a tiny dick,” he giggles, and _excuse the fuck?  
  
_ “I- I do _not_ have that!” Simmons says. It comes out as a squeak, but he doesn’t! He is perfectly average, okay, that’s just a stereotype and of course his feet are smaller than Locus’! _Look at him_. He’s as big as a fucking _bear_! Do bears even exist anymore?  
  
Do snakes?  
  
Simmons nervously glances around and then he screams as Locus throws the socks in his face when he is distracted. Which is ruder than Grif, almost, well. Not really. But almost!  
  
“Hey!” he yells and hugs the socks close. He tries to not think too hard about where Grif kept them, but he doesn’t want to put them on his feet either way. Not yet. “Don’t- I mean…” he trails off at the glare Locus sends his way, and Simmons swallows. “Uh. I mean. Thank you?”  
  
Locus glares for a bit longer.  
  
And then he throws an apple at Simmons, too, and huh.  
  
Yeah, okay.  
  
He fumbles with it, but it looks clean and it looks fresh and nice and not at all like the potato Grif ate earlier. Grif who is grumbling about socks and carrots and Simmons would correct him- that’s not his _name_ , damn it- except Locus is still there and still has a big bag of food and. Well. _Food_.  
  
Simmons can be called a carrot as long as he gets _more_ food.  
  
And then suddenly Grif sits straight up, as if he wasn’t puking his guts out all day, and gives Simmons a wild eyed stare.  
  
“You’re a Downer!” Grif says. Like that’s _news_.  
  
Simmons stares.  
  
“Okay,” Grif says, accepting a piece of bread that Locus gives him, “Okay, good! Do you have a card for the bridge? The bridges?”  
  
“Uh…” He does, actually. It’s in his pant pocket, hopefully still intact because maybe one day Simmons wants to use _functioning_ toilets. “Yeah?” he replies, and Grif lights up like he _isn’t_ insane and makes no sense ever, at all.  
  
“Good!” Grif yells, and Locus is _staring_ at Simmons in that creepy, scary way, and oh fuck, what does that mean? Does Grif want the card? Will Locus _murder_ him to give the card to Grif? What, what is going on? Why can’t he just eat his nice, fresh apple?  
  
Grif points at him.  
  
“Help me find my sister,” he says, “And I’ll help you survive!”  
  
What.  
  
“What,” Locus blankly says, and is he a _mind reader?  
  
_ “My sister, Locus, my sister,” Grif says, grabbing Locus’ shoulder and shaking him excitedly like Locus _isn’t_ capable of ripping his hands off, “Cinnamon here can help me find my sister! And he will _totally_ die without my help, it’s perfect! Locus!”  
  
Simmons tries to imagine Grif having a sister. The picture he sees in his mind is Grif, but like. Lumpier. Just as dirty, though, and he shudders. Girls are scary enough, but a girl like _Grif?_ Insane and dirty and stealing socks from innocent Downers?  
  
He hugs his socks closer.  
  
“I- I can survive on my own!” he protests, and Grif sends him a disbelieving look.  
  
“Uh, no, you can’t? You don’t even know how to make a fire!”  
  
“Wha- I made that fire! I made _this_ fire!” he shrieks and gestures at the tiny, tiny fire, but it’s still a _fire_. That he made! For Grif, too! He made the fire for _Grif!  
  
_ “Uh-huh, sure,” Grif says, definitely not believing him. “Whatever. You will _still_ die all alone without my help! So help me with your fancy little card, and I’ll help _you_. With my _brain_.”  
  
That doesn’t sound right. That doesn’t sound right at __all , because Grif clearly has no brain.  
  
“And Locus can give you food, too,” Grif adds and takes a huge chunk out of the bread.  
  
“Deal,” Simmons blurts out, and that’s it, isn’t it?  
  
He just doomed himself, but at least he will be fed.  
  
“Nice,” Grif says.  
  
And then he kills the fire by puking into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D  
> green boy


	3. Chapter 3

The Wastrels that were outside scatter the moment they see Locus.  
  
Simmons doesn’t _blame_ them. Locus is huge and terrifying, and Simmons didn’t even know there were still guns around. Didn’t even know knives that weren’t _blunted_ were still around. So it makes sense that the probably-cannibalistic maniacs scatter like flies when Locus steps out, because he is huge and actually packing _death_.  
  
It still pisses him off though.  
  
Because Locus has _barely_ any tears in his clothes, and they still don’t attack him! Meanwhile, Simmons followed Grif’s _stupid_ advice and is missing a whole sleeve, three buttons, his pants look like he got attacked by a rabid squirrel and his shirt isn’t _white_ anymore. He’s a mess. Locus isn’t a mess, and it _sucks_. The only one _messier_ than Simmons is Grif, and that’s also not fair. _Simmons_ is the civilized one. He should be the one in nice, whole clothes that are minimally dirty!  
  
Grif acts like he didn’t spend a whole night and day throwing up. He is, in fact, still rummaging around the bag of food Locus showed up with, cheeks bulging with how much he stuffs into his mouth. He clearly isn’t afraid someone will attack them, and why would he be? Again, _Locus_ is there. _Locus_.  
  
And somehow Simmons is part of this now. This _whatever_ this is.  
  
Simmons also reeks of burnt vomit.  
  
“Why did you have to puke _into_ the fire?” he complains, stepping around a suspicious puddle in the street as he follows Grif and Locus. Locus looks like he knows where he is going, at least. Grif is just barely walking forwards, looking like he is considering just crawling into the bag. As if it would even _fit_ , what with how big Grif’s stupid head is.  
  
“Didn’t wanna puke on Locus, duh,” Grif replies and almost walks into a bent lamp post, except Locus grabs him and steers him and again, _how_ did Grif get someone so terrifying to be like… his blind dog? Guide dog? Leading. Something. Dog?  
  
“But now we smell! And- and you could’ve aimed to the _other_ side, not straight in front of you, and what if it had hit _me_?”  
  
Grif smirks at Simmons.  
  
“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” Simmons hisses, because of _course_ Grif would have puked all over him if he had the brain to come up with it, and Simmons _would_ shove the fatass, if Locus wasn’t there. Stupid, scary Locus, who doesn’t even _glance_ at him.  
  
Which, actually, is much better than- well. Than looking at him. Because his face is scary.  
  
“Just want to make sure you fit _in_ , Carrot,” Grif mocks, and would it be worth it to strangle him? Like, obviously Simmons would die immediately, and he’s only got his _card_ as leverage, and anyone can use a card. Why Locus hasn’t just _taken_ the card is beyond him, but also, like hell that _Simmons_ will point that out.  
  
“By _puking_ on me? How- how would that help? Just smelling like a dumpster fire is enough!”  
  
“Dumpsters,” Grif says, eyes going glassy and dreamy and oh, that is so fucking gross.  
  
“Of course _you_ would think a dumpster is a fucking restaurant,” Simmons shudders, “urgh! How- how will we even get through the City then, like, _everyone_ will know you’re a Wastrel!”  
  
Oh god, the City. The _City_.  
  
If Grif wants to use the card to cross the bridges, that means they have to go back where Simmons just _ran from_. Ran! Chased! By the _cops!_ Cops that wanted to kill him, just because he didn’t want to take his Joy.  
  
Well, alright, they would probably just have forced him to eat Joy. But that still meant he would’ve been _high on Joy_. Which would have meant he would have eaten his sandwich, and it would probably still be made up of… of…  
  
Simmons gags.  
  
“How long have we been eating rats?” he moans.   
  
“You got a rat on you?” Grif asks, and Simmons shrieks and hurriedly jumps away from grubby, grabby hands. “C’mon,” Grif complains, rolling his eyes, “it’s not like _you’ll_ eat it, right? Share with the group, Simmons.”  
  
“O-Oh, so _now_ you know my name? Fuck you!” he snaps back. “I wouldn’t share any rats with you even if I had any, and I don’t, and-!”  
  
Locus turns around and _glares_.  
  
Simmons meeps.  
  
“Silence,” Locus says.  
  
“There’s no one here,” Grif replies and just walks past him, and Simmons would be jealous of that fearlessness if he didn’t _know_ that Grif is only like that because he is completely fucking bonkers. Nuts. Insane! “Chill out, Locus. Have an apple.”  
  
“No,” Locus replies and pushes Grif’s waving, apple holding hand away from his face.  
  
 _Insane_.  
  
“But seriously,” Grif says, or at least Simmons thinks he says it. His way too big mouth is stuffed to the brim with mashed apple pieces and it’s so, so gross, “Where’s the rat?”  
  
“There _is_ no rat,” Simmons hisses because unlike the insane Wastrel, Simmons fears and respects Locus. He will be as silent as possible but also, he can’t just let Grif get away with stuff. He can’t let him win, not after he stole his socks! Never mind that he got them _back_ , because he only got them back because Locus made it so and that means it doesn’t _count_. “I was talking about the rat I almost ate! Yesterday! When… when I didn’t…”  
  
Locus is suddenly walking much faster. Simmons feels like they should jog to keep up, but Grif is still walking his sloth-like pace and whatever reason Locus has to hang around someone like Grif, in the end it means Grif is the one to stick to, right? It means he should try his best to walk like Grif, because maybe it will trick Locus’ mind into thinking he’s got _two_ fat oranges to feed. Even if Simmons isn’t fat or orange, or anything at all like Grif.  
  
(thank god)  
  
“Ah,” Grif says, and throws away the apple core, only _barely_ missing Simmons face, the _shit_ , “you mean you didn’t take your Joy because of a rat? Sucks, dude. Fucking sucks.”   
  
“What do you know about Joy? You’re a- a Wastrel,” Simmons huffs and reaches out to take an apple too, except Grif bares his teeth and Simmons suddenly, vividly remembers the ‘biting the air’ moment from last night.  
  
Simmons very quickly stuffs his hands into his pant pockets and fingers the card in one of them.  
  
“Psssht. Wastrel. Of course I know ‘bout Joy, _everyone_ knows ‘bout Joy. I miss it,” he sighs and Simmons hates to admit it, but _same_. He can relate.  
  
“It was so nice,” he whines.  
  
“I _know_ ,” Grif agrees, “Was _so_ nice. Fucking… rainbows, and shit.”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
They trail off into silence. Locus’ stomping sounds is louder than even Grif’s crunching munching sounds, which is actually amazing and more proof that Locus is way too huge to be _real_. Because Grif is loud. So loud. The loudest.  
  
“LOCUS,” Grif _yells_ , just like that, once again reminding Simmons that he is _fucking insane_ , “CAN I HAVE SOME JOY?”  
  
“I’m leaving,” Locus says.  
  
“He doesn’t mean it,” Grif tells Simmons.  
  
Except when Simmons blinks, Locus is gone, much like the bread loaf Grif just consumed in one bite. Magic. _Magic_. Or maybe Locus actually _is_ imaginary, and Grif just used some weird-ass Wastrel trick to drag Simmons into his imaginations and oh god, was he _ever there?  
  
_ “Huh,” Grif says. Shrugs. “He’ll be _back_. Whatever, the bridge is uh… this way. Yeah.”  
  
“The bridge is _not_ that way and also, where the fuck did he go!?”  
  
“Getting more food, obviously.” Grif squints up at him. “Also, how do _you_ know the bridge isn’t that way?”  
  
Simmons doesn’t know. He realizes that way too late, but he can’t _stop_ now. He doesn’t even want to go back to the City! And why does Grif even think his sister is _there_ , anyway? She has to be a Wastrel too, there’s no way she can still be taking Joy if Grif is out here, right?  
  
Not like… not like his neighbor Doc, who Simmons is _pretty_ sure had a twin that Simmons maybe, possibly chased out of town with a bunch of others when said twin went. Not good. Not… Joy-Happy.  
  
No, no, if Grif has a sister, she has to be a Wastrel. It makes no sense otherwise!  
  
The important part is, he can’t let Grif win an argument because Grif _sucks_.  
  
“How do _you_ know it _is_ that way?” he snaps back.  
  
Grif points at the road.  
  
“It goes _two different ways!_ ” Simmons shrieks and gestures at how the road is _forked_ , it’s split, you can walk left or right, just pointing at one side of the road says _nothing!_ “And where did your Locus go!?” he adds in, frantically.  
  
“My Locus went to get more food, what the fuck Simmons, don’t you _listen?”  
  
_ He will kill him. He _would_ kill him, if Locus didn’t exist.  
  
“I hate you,” he tells Grif.  
  
“Whatever, you want to survive, you gotta listen to me. _This_ way,” Grif says and walks down the completely opposite way he pointed at before. He pointed at left, and now they’re going _right_. Why. _Why_.  
  
Simmons hides his face. And then, because there’s literally nothing else he can fucking _do_ , he runs after.  
  
“I should get a doll,” Grif tells him when he catches up, “Kai _loves_ dolls.”  
  
“That’s a weird name for a girl,” Simmons says, because it is. Kai? Like, what, a caiman crocodile? Is this a hint that Kai will _eat_ them when they find her?  
  
“No it isn’t,” Grif scoffs.  
  
“It _is_ , and also, isn’t she too old for dolls?”  
  
Grif gives him a Look. Simmons knows he decided _yesterday_ that he hated Grif’s looks, but he decides he hates them a bit more than before. Maybe 10% more.  
  
“What,” he says.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Grif tells him.  
  
“I’m _not!_ ”  
  
“Yeah you are, just accept it.”  
  
“I’m not! It’s not like she’s a _child_.”  
  
“Why would she _not_ be a child?”  
  
“Why _would_ she be a child?!”  
  
They stare at each other. Simmons is panting, and it’s so annoying that Grif is only frowning at him, not at all flustered or red faces or anything.  
  
“What,” Grif says, “the fuck. Are you talking about, dude?”  
  
“There _are_ no kids, Grif! That’s what I’m talking about!”  
  
Grif stares more. It’s extremely annoying, because now Simmons is wondering if there _are_ kids around, and if so, how did he miss them? Aren’t they supposed to look like kids? Like… short. And grubby handed and greedy and snotty? Maybe kinda cute?  
  
Then Simmons realizes he just described Grif to himself, and he will just _not_ think about it. What kids? Pssht, he’s never heard of kids. Nope.  
  
“There are kids at the _train station_ ,” Grif replies, which makes _no_ sense, because the train station was decommissioned twenty years ago but then again, Grif is insane and of course he doesn’t know shit. But it makes a little more sense then, if Grif thinks they will find his sister by the train station. Can’t get _there_ without walking over at least five bridges and past two Cities filled with Joy taking people. That is, after all, why Grif needs Simmons’ _card_.  
  
Simmons once again realizes he’s doomed.  
  
“I don’t even know how you think we’ll get through _one_ City!” he blurts out as Grif shakes the bag, probably hoping some more food falls out even though he ate it all and yeah, okay, so maybe Locus _did_ leave to get more food so Grif can keep being a fat orange, “I would be fine! I can be polite! I just have to find a nice suit again, and I’ll be _fine_. But you?”  
  
“What about me?” Grif scowls at him, “I can be polite if I really _have_ to, Cinnamon, fuck you.”  
  
“No, you can’t! You can’t even take _Joy_ , you’re a- a Wastrel, we can’t even drug you to make you fake it better!”  
  
“Don’t bring Joy into this, bitch,” Grif hisses and shoves at him, “you _know_ I miss taking it!”  
  
“Well so do _I!_ ” he hisses back and shoves him, too, because Grif _started it_.  
  
“It doesn’t count! You _chose_ to stop taking it! I didn’t! You’re a stupid Downer, not a-”  
  
“Did you say _Downer_?” a voice cuts in, and Grif and Simmons freeze.  
  
What had been an empty road suddenly _isn’t_. In fact, Simmons realizes, there are five guys surrounding them. They are almost as gross as Grif, all dirty and torn clothes and some are even barefooted. Some have _twigs_ in their hair.  
  
Most of all, they’ve all got _weapons_. Sharpened sticks and rusty pipes, but still weapons that would _hurt_. Simmons realizes he’s clutching at Grif’s shirt, and he hurriedly lets it go.  
  
“N-No?” he replies.  
  
The man who spoke up before grins.  
  
“You _sure_?” he teases, stepping closer and swinging his pipe and getting way, way too close. “We _like_ Downers, don’t we boys? Really need one, actually.” He looks towards Grif and grins, “maybe a fat Wastrel, too.”  
  
“I’m not sharing my fat,” Grif tells him, as if that is even possible. Unless-  
  
“Oh my god, are you cannibals?” Simmons gasps and hurriedly stumbles away from the man, except that means he bumps into _another_ one, and he is rewarded with a painful poke from a very sharp stick.  
  
Simmons yelps and scuttles back forward, and finds himself pressing up against Grif as the Wastrels get closer, effectively trapping them. Grif’s entire gross being is nowhere near as scary as the Wastrels around them.  
  
“Cannibals? Oh no,” the man laughs and smacks the pipe against the palm of his hand. It’s a terrifying sound. The kind of sound it will make if it hits _Simmons’_ body, which is just a very bad thing to think about. “We’re entertainers! Been looking for a Downer, is all.” He leans in.  
  
And in.  
  
And in.  
  
His breath stinks, Simmons thinks, because it fucking does. It _reeks_ , and he tries to not gag just to keep that smell out of his own mouth. The man smiles wickedly.  
  
“And we all know Downers are the _best_ entertainers, don’t we, boys?”  
  
The group cheers.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Simmons whispers.  
  
“That makes _no_ sense,” Grif says, “Carrot has the worst sense of humor.”  
  
“Oh, we don’t care if he can make good jokes,” the man cackles and turns around, gesturing with his pipe, “this way! C’mon, tag along now, or Surge might have to give you some encouragement! Off we go~!”  
  
“I hate this,” Simmons whimpers and then yelps, because the man who has to be Surge pokes him in the ass again with the too sharp stick, and he quickly (reluctantly) follows.  
  
“Tell me ‘bout it,” Grif groans, “I bet they won’t even have good food, if they think _you’re_ funny.”  
  
“That has _nothing_ to do with this, and I _can_ be funny,” he hisses, shuffling as close as he can as they’re poked along, “how- how long until Locus is back?”  
  
Grif’s eyes goes glassy.  
  
“Uhhh,” he says.  
  
“How _long_ , Grif?” Simmons asks again, more desperate, because they are forced to turned down another path and there is a big house there. A mansion or something, with stone walls around it and barbed wire and oh fuck, oh god, they’re going to _die_.  
  
“I dunno?” Grif shrugs, and folds the empty bag in his hands, and then tucks it away in, once again, hopefully a pocket and not his own fat ass, “He shows up before I starve, I guess.”  
  
Logically that would mean in the next five minutes, considering how fast Grif ate an entire bag of food. But they don’t even have _that_ , because suddenly they are being herded through gates made out of scrap metal, and into a courtyard filled with more Wastrels and oh _no, no, no no no no!  
  
_ “Welcome to Temple’s Garden,” the man in front of them cackles as he unlocks what looks like an elevator, or maybe a cage, or maybe _both_ , “Hope you enjoy your visit!”  
  
“No, no!” Simmons squeaks out and turns around and tries to scramble away, but it’s too late. He is shoved into it hard enough that he _falls_ into it, and then Grif is too, landing right on Simmons and just punching the _air_ out of him with his massive weight.  
  
Simmons wheezes.  
  
“This isn’t the lunch room,” Grif groans and shoves an elbow into Simmons’ stomach, and then they are locked in.  
  
“Nope,” the man outside agrees, “But you sure will get slaughtered in an hour!” He salutes.  
  
He presses a button.  
  
They scream as the elevator-cage _falls_ , nothing slow about it, and Simmons doesn’t _care_ how gross Grif is, if he is going to die he will damn well hug someone first! Or at least try and squirm out from Grif’s weight and use Grif as a crash pillow or--!  
  
It comes to a screeching halt.  
  
The other side of the cage opens up slowly and loudly, rusty mechanical parts making so much noise that Simmons is half-certain he’s going to be deaf once it’s done.  
  
It stops.  
  
Simmons and Grif stare out at the basement room before them. It’s filled with Wastrels, dirty and half-starved and definitely crazy with how they twitch and stare or cry in every corner. The lights are dim enough to make the Wastrels look even __more terrifying, and on the other side of the room is a second elevator-cage. It has a sign on it, hand-written with coal onto dirty cardboard.  
  
It’s a sign for cage fights.  
  
“This sucks,” Grif says, and Simmons whimpers in agreement.


	4. Chapter 4

The first step is to get out of the cage-elevator thing. It’s the hardest step, because Simmons is pretty sure the floor in the basement is _covered_ in piss and who-knows-what with how dirty it is, and Grif is just rambling about wanting to go back up where the food is.  
  
And maybe, just maybe, Simmons hopes the elevator will take them back up. It makes _sense_ , right? It’s an elevator! It’s supposed to go up and down, and surely they can’t be the only ones that needs to be dumped down into a scary basement for the day, right? Right.  
  
Except that it seems like they _were_ the last batch of victims to be dumped down into the scary basement. It’s illogical, of course, because morning only just arrived. Simmons can still vividly remember Grif puking into the fire last night, and Locus being creepy this very morning.  
  
If the Wastrels upstairs had any brains, they would keep dumping kidnapping victims until night fell! It only made more _sense_.  
  
Still, they were Wastrels. And Simmons forces himself to step out of the cage thing.  
  
The floor makes a wet, squeaky sound when he steps on it and Simmons closes his eyes and tries to breathe. Through his mouth. Actually, maybe he will _taste_ the grossness of everything, maybe he should breathe through his nose instead! Maybe that is the smart option!  
  
He breathes through his nose.  
  
Simmons gags and tugs his shirt up over his nose, wheezing.  
  
“I’m hungry,” Grif whines, and Simmons doesn’t _care_.  
  
“You just ate an entire bag of food, how can you be _hungry?_ ” he groans and steps closer to Grif once the Wastrel exits the elevator. Grif sucks, yeah, but at least Simmons is like… almost fully certain that Grif _won’t_ eat him. Unless they stay without food for a day, then maybe Grif will just give Simmons a test-bite.  
  
“How can you _not_ be hungry?” Grif replies and wanders closer to one of the Wastrels crying in a corner. Simmons seriously doubts the sanity that action, but he is forced to tag along because the _other_ Wastrels keep _staring_ and it’s so, so fucking creepy.  
  
“Do you have food?” Grif asks the crying woman in the corner. That is, Simmons _assumes_ it’s a woman. The Wastrel has long, matted hair and their shirt is long enough it _might_ be a dress. But they are also so skinny they might as well be a skeleton, and Simmons nervously shifts on his feet.  
  
The Wastrel doesn’t reply. They just keep crying.  
  
“That’s rude,” Grif scoffs and turns his back to them.  
  
“Of _course_ they don’t have any food! Look around you,” Simmons says and gestures around them, “does this _look_ like anyone here has food? It- it smells like a toilet! Probably is one, actually! I see _nowhere_ to do your business except here, oh god that means this is _pee_. It’s pee!”  
  
“Duh,” Grif rolls his eyes and wanders off again, and Simmons stands frozen for a second too long. Because he’s standing in a room where the floor is practically (literally? possibly!) covered in _piss_.  
  
Simmons stands frozen for a second too long, and that means Grif pokes another Wastrel that tries to _bite him_.  
  
And the worst part is that Grif tries to _bite back_.  
  
Simmons yelps and hurries over as quickly as he can without making the probably-pee floor splash up on his pant legs. He grabs Grif by the shirt and _tugs_ , and are humans meant to make angry dog sounds like this? Neither Wastrel sounds _human_ , but at least the other one is reasonable enough to not chase after them as Simmons drags Grif’s heavy ass to an unoccupied corner of the room.  
  
“I just wanted food!” Grif complains and swats Simmons’ hands away, as if he didn’t just save Grif from being bitten to death or, worse, catching rabies. Because Wastrels have to have a higher risk of carrying rabies, right?  
  
“They _have_ no food! Get it through your stupid, thick head,” Simmons snaps back and smacks Grif’s shoulder.   
  
Grif shoves at him, and Simmons shrieks as he stumbles back, frantically flailing his arms to avoid falling to the floor. He succeeds; barely.  
  
“Don’t do that!” he screams and presses up against the part of the wall that almost looks clean, “I don’t want to smell like pee!”  
  
“You already do,” Grif informs him, which, _what?  
  
_ Simmons sniffs his clothes, his armpits, his _arms_.  
  
“Wow, you’re paranoid,” Grif says, and Simmons stops sniffing himself.  
  
“It’s not paranoia if things are out to get you! Which they clearly are, have you seen this room? Did you see the Wastrels with _sticks?_ They plan to eat me! Just because I’m a D-”  
  
Grif presses one filthy hand to Simmons’ mouth, and he isn’t sure if he wants to scream or _bite_. He doesn’t get to decide before Grif leans in way too close, his dirty and weirdly soft hair blocking Simmons’ eyes from seeing the rest of the room, his warm breath washing over Simmons’ ear.  
  
“Don’t say the D word down here, _idiot_ ,” Grif whispers, except he says it in what is only barely _not_ a normal voice volume, “Didn’t we talk ‘bout this outside?”  
  
“No we didn’t,” Simmons hisses the moment Grif lets up the tiniest bit with his hand, “We talked about how much you _suck_ and when your Locus will show back up again to _save us_.”  
  
“My Locus shows up when he wants to,” Grif answers, dropping his hand as he seems to actually, seriously consider if sitting down on the floor is worth it. The fact that he has to think about it is answer enough, honestly, about just how dirty the floor must be, “he didn’t show up for ages once.”  
  
“... how long is _ages?”  
  
_ “I don’t have a clock, I got no fucking clue. Also,” Grif adds, “they said they weren’t going to eat you, remember? Seriously, are you old? Do you have the memory thing? The uh, the A-memory thing?”  
  
“I don’t have Alzheimers, fuck you,” Simmons snaps, “and what if they lied? You’re all insane, of course you guys lie all the time!”  
  
“ _I_ haven’t lied to you.”  
  
Which… is true. And knowing that it’s the _truth_ , that sucks. Because Grif hasn’t lied. He has joked and he has been a bitch and an asshole and a _jerk_ , but he never _lied_ about things. Granted, Simmons has only known him for like. Two days. Barely. But it still means something, especially now when Simmons has got no Joy pills to swallow and has just found out crazy Wastrels thinks Downers are interesting enough to _hunt down_.  
  
Simmons scowls at Grif. Grif rolls his eyes.  
  
“It’s obvious they’re gonna make you fight some other Downer or something,” Grif says, which makes sense, he’s the _worst_ , “I’ll be _fine_. Locus will show up with more food and, like, his badass knives and stuff. See, he even gave one to me,” Grif adds and pulls a knife out of _somewhere_ , or maybe nowhere, and Simmons gapes.  
  
“You had a knife on you all this time and you didn’t _use it?”_ he hisses, but it comes out strangled and high pitched.  
  
“What, against the five bazillion guys with sticks? Dude,” Grif says incredulously, “I’m not _Locus_. I use this knife if someone tries to take my food!”  
  
“W-Well, can I have it, if I’m going to be the one fighting?” Simmons asks, and it’s so hard to not just reach out and snatch it from Grif’s hands. He almost does it, anyway, but the knife disappears from view as he blinks.  
  
“Nah,” Grif says, “It’s mine, not yours.”   
  
Because Grif still sucks, and Simmons hides his face in his own shirt and makes muffled screaming sounds out of pure frustration. He doesn’t want to die. He _just_ got off his Joy, he _just_ realized he has been putting dead rats on bad bread for breakfast, he can’t die in a piss room! Maybe Grif will smell like a scared baby orange, maybe _that_ will make his scary bodyguard Locus show up faster.  
  
Not that he thinks any smell can overpower the stench of the piss basement. Not even _Grif’s_ smell, as strong as that alone is.  
  
“I don’t want to die,” Simmons says and if it comes out as a whimper, well, Grif’s hardly got room to talk. He is as scared as him! As helpless and weak and _abandoned_ _in a madhouse.  
  
_ “You’re a wimp,” Grif says, who’s got no fucking idea how stupid and ironic and hypocritical he is, and Simmons decides he is done pretending Grif’s got any kind of brain left in there.  
  
“I’m _not_. It’s sensible to be freaked out! Also, if, if I die! If I _die_ , Grif, you won’t get to the train station!”  
  
Grif blinks.  
  
“Oh shit,” he says, “You’re _right_.”  
  
“Of course I’m right!” Simmons hisses in a whisper-volume, just to be sure because the other Wastrels look way more insane than Grif, and while they aren’t coming closer, they’re still _staring_. Actually, he realizes, it seems like none of them have grouped up.  
  
Are they staring because Simmons is keeping to Grif’s side? What? Why? Well, it makes _sense_ , but it’s not like Simmons wants to _step away_ from Grif. That thought is terrifying.  
  
And not only because Simmons is scared of being eaten alive by maniacs! He just knows that Locus will steal his socks and stuff them down his throat before stringing him up somewhere, if Grif gets hurt while Simmons is meant to keep an eye on him.  
  
At least he assumes he’s meant to keep an eye on Grif. It’s not like anyone else will and, honestly, if the reward is _food?_ Of course Simmons will keep an eye on Grif.  
  
“Do you think that if you win, they’ll give me food?” Grif asks then, and what the fuck.  
  
“Why would they give _you_ food if _I_ won?”  
  
Grif looks at him. Grif then looks him _over_ , and ends it with a judging look.  
  
“You don’t eat,” he says, “I do. Means I will get the food.”  
  
“ _No_ it does _not_ mean that, you stupid-!”  
  
“Quiet down!” one Wastrel wails, stomping their foot into a deeper puddle of probably-pee, and Simmons gags and hides behind Grif, because _gross_. “Let me be! I _hate_ loud! And I’m hungry! And you’re loud! And we will _never get out of here!”  
  
_ The elevator on the other side, with its super ugly cardboard sign, suddenly opens.  
  
The wailing Wastrel wails _louder_.  
  
“I WILL NEVER GET OUT OF HERE!” they wail, and speakers that Simmons has _no idea_ where they are crackle to life.  
  
“The fat orange-wearing Wastrel! Toddle your way into the elevator please! Uhhh,” there is the sound of shuffling papers and oh _no_. Why do they want Grif? Simmons can’t be alone here, they will eat him or push him into the pee-puddles and Grif is _already walking towards the elevator_.  
  
“Grif,” Simmons yelps and grabs his arm and tugs him away from the ominous elevator. Like, super ominous. The lights in it glow red, the entire thing looks like it’s going to rust apart at any second and the sides of it has _spikes_. Spikes! Why would the put spikes inside an elevator? “Grif, don’t go in there! That’s- that’s the _fighting_ elevator!”  
  
“But it looks like cherries,” Grif huffs and gestures with his free hand, “all red and juicy! C’mon, you can come with, Carrot.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ to come with!”  
  
The speakers crackle again.  
  
“Uhhh if the fat orange one would hurry up, then we will give him _two_ sandwiches!”  
  
“Wha- GRIF NO!” Simmons _shrieks_ , but it’s too late. Grif _launches_ himself away, scrambling into the elevator and Simmons tries to catch up, seriously, he does and if Locus won’t believe him then he is _dumb_ as well as scary but-  
  
But the elevator doors close faster than they should, with how rusted they are. And Grif is grinning and rocking back on his heels in excitement and he’s so, so, dumb.  
  
“See you, Cinnamon!” he laughs and waves and oh god.  
  
Oh no.  
  
“Oh _no_ ,” Simmons wheezes and he doesn’t want to kneel in the piss basement, he really doesn’t, but he can _feel_ a panic attack coming on and he _has to_ and everything sucks.  
  
Music starts playing above. There must be people stomping up there, because pieces falls off from the ceiling and oh god, the music is so bad. It’s so messed up from who knows what, all static and too slow in places and then too fast, or maybe that’s just _Simmons freaking out_.  
  
“First victim of the day!” he hears the announcer cackle, and oh _no_.  
  
“Locus is gonna kill me,” he wheezes, because it’s true.  
  
Unless-  
  
Simmons is kneeling in pee-water and he is going to die, seriously, he’s going to _die_.  
  
But where the elevator was, there is now space to move. And Simmons vaguely remembers reading up on architecture and electronics and all that kind of shit, way back before Joy, when he did things because he was _bored_ and, okay, maybe kinda lonely.  
  
And he knows. He _knows_ he can climb up that shaft if he just tries. He knows the classic layout of elevators and this used to be some kind of bunker, and he read up on those too and--!  
  
“I want Joy,” he wheezes out, because how else is one supposed to talk while _fighting a panic attack?  
  
_ And then Simmons gets up on shaky legs and walks to the shaft and he’s going to __die.  
  
But hopefully not to Locus, because he is actually trying to get Locus’ stupid, fat orange back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence!

It is really, really fucking hard to climb an elevator shaft.  
  
Sure, Simmons is shaking worse than porcelain in an earthquake, and that totally makes it much harder than it has to be. But he is still pretty damn certain it’s still _hard_ as _fuck_ , climbing up all the rusty parts and broken parts and sparking wires and he hates everything so, so much.  
  
But the cheering and booing of the crowd gets louder the higher he gets, and then he is at the bottom of the elevator and there, right there, is a latch to get _into_ the elevator and why the fuck didn’t he see it before? He knows why Grif wouldn’t see it but why didn’t he, Simmons, the _smart one_ , see it? They could have escaped before Grif was _dumb_ and sprinted his stupid, stupid ass into it for obviously fake sandwiches.  
  
His hand shakes as he clings to a creaking ladder while stretching to unlatch the little entrance. Simmons is very aware of the fact that at the bottom there’s concrete and piss-water-or-something-grosser, and maybe _possibly_ a body. He didn’t try and stare _too much_ at the lump that was in the shadows of the elevator shaft, but everyone in these stupid fucking Wastrel lands are insane so, yeah. He’s pretty sure it was a body.  
  
Grif owed him so much, he thinks, and somehow crawls into the elevator without dying.  
  
Grif owes him _socks_ , he adds on when he gets through and stares out at the- the-  
  
It can really only be called an arena, honestly.  
  
A very small arena, that’s gone through the post office with how dented, dirty and just not good looking it is. There are Wastrels in helmets and tough leather jackets cheering on from behind obviously handmade bars of scrap, and in the middle of it is Grif.  
  
Grif can move very, very quickly for being so big, Simmons thinks, feeling like he is frozen in fear (shock? remains of his anxiety attack?) and wasting important time. But _of course_ Grif is fast, anyone would be as someone who looks like a half-starved rabid _thing_ chases him, cackling weirdly high-pitched and wielding a wooden bat.  
  
At least it’s not metal.  
  
“I want my sandwiches!” Grif hysterically screams, and then he gets whacked right in the face.  
  
Simmons really should be moving, shouldn’t he? Because that whack just sent Grif to the floor, and he’s pretty sure he can see Grif’s nose bleeding from here.  
  
He should be _moving_. Because Locus will kill him later, of course, not because he _cares_ if Grif gets a little hurt. That would be dumb.  
  
And also because the bat wielding Wastral is _still_ whacking Grif with said bat, just going to town with it. Grif is making sad little sounds.  
  
Simmons shakely stands up.  
  
Simmons steps out of the elevator, and the audience boos.  
  
“Oh, what’s this now? The Downer scheduled for _later_ tonight has arrived! Guess he got greedy for his turn in the spotlight!” the announcer laughs, absolutely ruining Simmons’ advantage. The Wastrel whirls around, raising their bat and then they _freeze_.  
  
“Simmons!?” they yell, and _what_.  
  
“What,” he squeaks out, because he doesn’t know this person! This person is _crazy_ , this person is a bat wielding Wastrel, how can they know _him_? “I- I don’t- don’t know who you are?”  
  
The Wastrel snarls and yanks off its helmet and _oh_.  
  
Because the helmet was big and lumpy, and with the bad lighting it made it so the Wastrel’s face was obscured by really freaky shadows. But now the helmet was gone, revealing ginger hair lighter than _Simmons’_ ginger hair, and furious eyes narrowed into an actually terrifying glare and holy _shit_.  
  
Holy shit, Simmons would know that crooked nose anywhere, because it’s from before Joy, before the war, when Simmons and Gene got into a kinda maybe pathetic fight on the schoolyard, when Gene punched Simmons and Simmons punched Gene and they _both_ got crooked noses but the opposite ways, and oh wow. Wow.  
  
“ _Gene!?”_ Simmons gasps and Gene shakes his bat at him.  
  
“YEAH!” he yells, the cheering of the crowd growing louder, “fuck you, Simmons!”  
  
“Wha- when did _you_ become a Wastrel? I saw- I saw you last week!”  
  
“No you didn’t,” Gene hisses and stalks closer and oh, wow. Wow. Grif looks like a _mess_ , like someone punched a bag of grapes or blueberries a couple of times and oh, no. Does that mean Simmons is going to look like that, too? “You’re so stupid, Simmons, you know that? Didn’t even notice I was gone! Me! Your _rival!_ Ran out by our entire _workforce_ while you were on your stupid vacation, you- you-!”  
  
Simmons screams and scrambles away as the bat comes flying through the air. It catches him in the shoulder, just barely, but enough to hurt a fuckton and definitely enough to make Simmons stumble, fall and slide right into Grif.  
  
Grif whines. Loudly.  
  
“Whyyy,” he whines, turning over, exposing his massive, soft belly which is, honestly, the worst decision to make when a maniac is coming at them with a bat. Which is probably why Simmons, instead of _moving out of the way_ , frantically tries to make Grif keep rolling away from Gene, who is coming closer and still spitting, well, spit, everywhere as he rants.  
  
“Of course you _had_ to be a fucking downer!” Gene rants, swinging the bat through the air like the fucking maniac he _is_ , “Of course! Can’t be a normal _wastrel_ , can you? Always gotta be so special!”  
  
Grif isn’t moving. Grif is too heavy to be _moved_ , and Simmons wheezes.  
  
“ _Move Grif_ ,” he wheezes, and then he tries to scramble away, except the bat strikes him _right_ in the back and holy shit, that hurts. That hurts so much that Simmons can’t even scream, because all the air left him and holy fucking shit. _Wow_.  
  
When did Gene get arm muscles? His arms were more twiggy than _Simmons’_ ever were, back before Joy! What the fuck.  
  
Simmons blinks. Gasps, nails digging into the concrete floor as his back is hurting so much it almost feels numb. A pointy boot digs into his side and rolls him over, because unlike Grif he isn’t as big as a _mountain_ , and Simmons groans. The lights above are too bright, and the cold concrete against his poor back _sucks_.  
  
Gene blocks out the lights, which is way worse than the lights blinding him.  
  
“Well, see where being special got you, Simmons,” Gene sneers, “on the ground, about to _die_. Gonna smash your head in like when you made my class project implode!”  
  
“You’re still upset about that?” Simmons wheezes out, because apparently he’s a _fucking idiot_.  
  
Gene snarls. Gene raises his bat.  
  
And then, right as Simmons is bracing himself for becoming the mashed potato version of a human, an orange, giant lump collides with Gene. Simmons can feel tears forming in his eyes as he frantically blinks away the black spots the bright lights gave him. There is the sound of scuffling, then a yelp and a groan, and Simmons forces himself to sit up, no matter how awful his back feels. The cheering from all sides is way too fucking loud, and _where_ is Locus? Isn’t he supposed to keep his fat orange safe? Shouldn’t he be able to _hear_ the goddamn people _sing_. Or chant, in this example.  
  
Simmons finally manages to focus on Grif. Grif, who is trying to stab Gene _anywhere_ , standing between Simmons and Certain Doom, but he’s so slow that the maniac wastrel got no problem smacking Grif’s flailing hand away from him once, twice, _thrice_. And then he uses his bat to really smack Grif’s hand, and Simmons groans in pity as Grif yells and drops the knife to the ground.    
 _  
That_ is followed up with Gene kneeing Grif in the stomach, and what the _fuck_. Simmons stumbles to his feet as Grif falls back down, wheezing, face flushed and eyes teary.  
  
“Bitch!” Simmons snaps, and Gene _cackles_ and leans down and grabs the knife, stabbing the air with it as he rests the bat against shoulder. His stupid teeth are crooked and yellow and his breath stinks so bad Simmons can smell it from where he stands, and Simmons _hates him_.  
  
“Calling your own name, bitch?” Gene taunts. “Or your shitty friend’s?”  
  
Gene kicks Grif in the side. Grif lets out the saddest, most pathetic whimper Simmons have ever heard.  
  
And see, Simmons may miss Joy. He misses it more than he miss proper food, and he would even sacrifice his own socks for it right now. Joy makes the world turn okay, makes bad memories go away and makes pain disappear because you’re just _too happy_ to care if you’re hurting. But the one thing Joy _doesn’t_ let him do is get angry.  
  
Simmons hasn’t been angry since he was fourteen years old. Now he’s catching up to it, because instead of being a sane, proper Downer that minds his business, a Downer who backs off and lets the bat and knife wielding maniac keep using Grif as a punching bag--  
  
Instead, Simmons guesses he picked up some of Grif’s crazy. Because before he can think better, he’s launching himself over Grif, right at the crazily dangerous wastrel and he _punches him_.  
  
Right across his stupid, fucking face.  
  
Really, it’s more of a slap. But he was _trying_ to punch, and that’s all that matters. Gene splutters and stumbles backwards, and Simmons just keep pushing, getting as close as he can. It vaguely reminds him of their stupid schoolyard fight, the one where they broke each others noses. Vaguely, but not really, because now Simmons isn’t angry about which Star Wars movie is the best one, and their audience isn’t shrieking little nerds, but hollering Wastrels banging pipes against bars.  
  
And, of course, there’s Grif’s knife and the shitty bat-  
  
“Get off me!” Gene shrieks, and almost manages to bite Simmons hand. But he misses, barely, and Simmons feels sudden, fierce pride as he manages to _nail_ Gene with one punch. Not the cool, dramatic ones where teeth and blood fly everywhere. But it’s a strong enough one that Gene drops the knife and only barely manages to keep his grip on the bat.  
  
Gene shrieks and swings the bat, but Simmons is diving and sliding on the gross, cold concrete floor and oh, fuck, he doesn’t know how to handle knives safely but surely _sliding_ towards one isn’t the way, but it’s too late. Too late to stop it either way, and too late to _care_ because then the knife is in his hand, and Simmons clings to it like a lifeline.  
  
“Watch out Carrot!” Grif says, (shouts?) because _of course_ he still can’t keep Simmons name straight. But it’s enough warning for Simmons to roll away, the bat connecting with the floor instead and smacking Gene right on the nose, hopefully breaking it worse than their schoolyard squabble did.  
  
“I’ll _murder you!”_ Gene screams, shrill and high, and Simmons scrambles to his feet and almost stumbles back down to the floor in his haste to get away from the bat. He can hear it swish behind him, only barely able to pay attention to Grif, who is still laying on the floor but at least shouting out directions and warnings.  
  
Which eventually makes Gene run back at Grif, because of course he does, and Grif yelps and scrambles away on all four and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Locus will _kill him_ if he lets Gene hurt Grif and--!  
  
And suddenly Simmons is stabbing Gene in the shoulder.  
  
He _really_ didn’t plan to do that. But there it is, the blade almost fully inside, and Gene wheezes and then tries to clumsily whirl around to smack Simmons away. Except Simmons can’t let go of the knife, feeling like he glued himself to the handle of it as he frantically clings to it and tries to avoid Gene trying to reach behind.  
  
At least the Wastrel dropped his bat to the floor. Probably because Simmons stabbed the shoulder he was using to swing it, but still. Either way, the hollering and booing all around them grows louder, and Simmons is pretty sure he just heard Grif squawk a _holy shit_.  
  
But Simmons is too busy trying to yank the knife free to make sure, and then the knife _is_ free and oh, oh fuck. Oh _god_ that is blood.  
  
Simmons feels like he should be way more disturbed by the sight of it- or at least by how Gene’s face is splattered in blood from his own nosebleed, or maybe the blood splatters on the floor from the wound Simmons just gave him.  
  
But he isn’t. He isn’t grossed out or disturbed, somehow, and that’s weird, right? Because Simmons just wants to stab him _more_ , and is this what Locus thinks all the time, with his freaky murder face? Stabbity stab all the Wastrels except the fat orange one?  
  
The handle of the knife is slippery, the blood from the blade dripping down and he hopes the knife won’t slide out of his hand like a slippery fish at the worst time ever.  
  
Gene wheezes. Gene rushes forward, and Simmons doesn’t think. He raises the hand holding the knife, tries to stab right into Gene’s stupid, annoying face. But despite being utterly insane and also _stupid_ , Gene somehow has the brains left to raise his arms and block the strike before it can connect.  
  
Except Simmons has never wanted to stab anyone this much in his _life_ , and he doesn’t want to rear back and try again. Gene might dive for the bat then, might even dive for _Grif_. So Simmons doesn’t back up.  
  
Instead he _pushes_.  
  
Those two extra inches he always had on Gene is suddenly super fucking handy. Because it means Simmons can step forwards while pushing down, arms trembling. Gene’s arms are also trembling, of course, except his eyes are wild with fear and Simmons _snarls_.  
  
Their audience is louder than ever, screaming more than hollering, but Simmons only has eyes for Gene. Fuck the rest of them, he just wants to stab that stupid, crazy expression away from Gene’s face.  
  
Suddenly Gene slips on the blood he dripped all over the floor. Slips and falls onto his back, and Simmons falls with him, except he’s silent where Gene screams and then, abruptly goes silent.  
  
The crowd goes silent, too. Because Simmons just shoved a knife into Gene’s face, and _no one_ expected that. No one expected a skinny Downer to stab their stupid teammate in the face, and maybe Simmons should feel surprise and shock about it too. But mostly he just feels a burning sense of victory, and he yanks the knife out and stumbles back onto his feet and backwards, holding the knife in front of him like a shitty, bloodied and _tiny_ sword.  
  
“ _Wow_ ,” Grif says behind him, and Simmons doesn’t know if it’s awe or shock or, even, a grossed out tone in that voice. What he _does_ know is that Gene’s body looks stupid twitching on the ground, and also he got Gene’s blood all over him.  
  
“Fuck all of you,” he tells their audience, and _that_ makes them break their silence with furious yellings and, oh shit. Oh _shit_ , they’re actually climbing over their handmade bars, clutching pipes and bats and knives and oh _fuck_.  
  
“We should run,” Grif suggests, voice strangled, and Simmons can only agree. Except there’s nowhere to run, they’re still locked into a shitty arena and the only way out is to climb back down the elevator shaft. And with how big and clumsy Grif is, they would both end up at the bottom of it with the probably-a-body lump, and all the piss water, and Simmons really doesn’t want to do that.  
  
But there’s nowhere else to go, and they shuffle away as the Wastrels starts getting into the arena, jeering and cackling and yelling all kinds of rude and fucked up shit.  
  
Then the roof breaks.  
  
The roof breaks in a sense of deja vu, and then _Locus_ is there. Simmons feels like he could _cry_ seeing the creepy Downer. It doesn’t matter that Locus looks so pissed off he might very well melt steel with his glare. What matters is that he is _here_ , and he’s still got his guns and massive knives and, apparently, a bag full of more food strapped to his back.  
  
Locus grabs a gun and aims.  
  
The bloodbath is loud and intense, and Simmons covers his ears even though his hands are filthy and slippery with blood, because he never really thought guns could be so fucking _loud_. His ears are ringing even with his hands blocking most sound by the time it is over, and the sides of his face now feels gross and sticky.  
  
Simmons doesn’t care. Everyone but him and Grif and _Locus_ are dead, and that’s the best he could ever hope for.  
  
Locus huffs. Locus puts his gun back into the holster, turns around and frowns at them.  
  
“How,” he says.  
  
“Simmons _stabbed a guy!_ ” Grif yells, pushing Simmons aside to get closer to Locus, excitedly gesturing at the air, “he stabbed him right in the face! With the knife you gave me! Holy _shit_ Locus, we’re keeping him!”  
  
Locus stares. Locus looks at Simmons, and Simmons is suddenly very aware that he is still clinging to Grif’s knife. He holds it out, feeling pale and shaky and yet weirdly proud, because Grif bragged about him to _Locus_. Locus, who would almost look approving if he was capable of making human facial expressions.  
  
“Good,” Locus says, and _holy shit_. “Keep it for now.”  
  
And then he turns and walks away to help Grif climb over the bars of the arena, and Simmons doesn’t really know what to do but to follow and try to climb them himself. Because he’s pretty sure Locus just praised him, which can’t be right, and Grif wants to _keep him_.  
  
Which is stupid, because Simmons already agreed to use his card to get past the bridges, but still. Something about it has him feeling weird inside, and it’s for the best that he focus on not impaling himself on the spiky bars rather than think more about __that.  
  
And, maybe, to feel annoyed when the first thing Grif does once they’re outside is to immediately stuff his face full with the food Locus brought them.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Days pass, and Simmons would love to keep track of how many, but it’s growing increasingly harder to do so lately. Everything out in the wastelands is just so… _grey_. There is always fog lingering way too fucking long, their food rots faster than they can eat which actually gives Grif a fucking _reason_ to eat it all within seconds and Simmons _hates it_.  
  
His pants still smell like piss. He knew he shouldn’t have knelt in the fucking piss water basement; but he was having a panic attack, and what else was he supposed to do? Stand and _faint?_ Get piss in his _hair?_ Nope. Just nope. Nope, no, nope.  
  
Simmons hates it. He hates everything, but Locus has been with them for several days now. The huge man is still _terrifying_ , but having him there means they won’t. Like. Get snatched up, again. Or so Simmons assumes; even insane Wastrels should know better, right? Right. Locus got _guns_. Simmons saw him _use those guns_. There was _blood_.  
  
“How many have you killed?” he blurts out, because apparently being a stupid Downer means he is sucking up Grif’s insanity like a sponge. Simmons flinches. Simmons takes a step behind Grif, just in case.  
  
Locus doesn’t even turn.  
  
“Uhhhh,” Grif says, bits of carrot escaping his big fucking mouth, and didn’t he say he _hated_ carrots? Although, this is the guy who ate a rotten potato and then threw it back up all over the place. Simmons should be used to Grif’s bullshit. He has had to deal with it for _days_ now, and how long was Locus alone with this fat orange? Why is Locus still there? Simmons got no _choice_. “I don’t _think_ I’ve killed anyone,” Grif finishes, and what.  
  
“I wasn’t talking to you!” Simmons snaps, and Grif looks at him.  
  
Grif opens his mouth, revealing all the chewed up, squishy food in there, and Simmons gags. Grif closes his mouth and looks unbearably smug, and Simmons remembers he still got that knife. He can _totally_ stab Grif, right?   
  
Except Locus is still there, still walking right in front of them, and Locus still got _guns_. Simmons tries to sneer at Grif, but Grif just opens his mouth again, and again Simmons has to cover his mouth to avoid gagging.  
  
The day is less foggy, at least. Almost _sunny_ , except not quite, which is good too. Simmons is a ginger, and while that is a _totally handsome trait_ to have, it’s also not. Very. Sun-proof. At least Gene is officially dead now, he thinks. Gene had darker ginger genes, Gene could handle the sun ten whole minutes longer than Simmons, and he was always fucking _dumb_ about it.  
  
“Locus,” Grif says, speeding up his lazy waddling just enough to nudge Locus with an elbow, like the insane maniac he is. “Locus, food is out. Hey, uh, when are we getting to the bridge, anyway?”  
  
Locus stops. Locus _stops_ , maybe possibly to _kill Grif_. Was this it? Was an elbow the final straw? Grif had puked into fires and stolen socks (socks that, now, smelled vaguely like piss because _everything sucked_ ) and chewed with his mouth open. But was an elbow the final straw? Simmons almost hopes so, except he stabbed a guy in the _face_ for Grif, and he doesn’t want to throw that away, but Locus is. Big.  
  
With guns.  
  
Simmons almost chews at his nails, but they’re as grubby and dirty as Grif’s entire being by now, and he would die of some weird, new, mutated disease if he even looks too long at his _stupid nails_. As it is, he doesn’t know how Grif is even _alive_ with how dirty he is.  
  
“One day,” Locus finally says, taking the bag from Grif and somehow managing to fold it into a tiny little bundle that fits right into one of the many, many mysterious pockets Locus got in his scary outfit, probably filled with even more knives and poisons and shit. Grenades. Something _deadly_. “We must find clothes, first.”  
  
Clothes.  
  
“How?” Simmons asks, because again, he’s a stupid sponge for stupid Grif, his tongue is _out of control_ , “Grif is three times bigger than all Wastrels! And all of our clothes are torn, why wouldn’t _theirs_ be, too? There’s- there’s no store out here!”  
  
He gestures frantically around them. There’s just grass and grass and more grass, and in the distance he can kind of see a tree. A tiny tree. It’s kind of bent over, like that really old, really scary librarian back before Joy. He shudders.  
  
Locus looks at him.  
  
“We will make do,” he says, like a cryptic asshole.  
  
Grif is wrinkling his nose.  
  
“I don’t _want_ to get new clothes,” he tells Locus, as if he can make a goddamn mountain change its stupid mind. Simmons gives into temptation and chews his nails. He will die soon, anyway. Locus is actually looking _annoyed_. Grif continues, “I _like_ my shirt. It’s orange, Locus! _Orange_. Would you wear anything that’s _not_ green? Black? You can’t ask me to change clothes, what’s even _wrong_ with mine? They’re orange. They’re perfect.”  
  
They’re not orange, of course. They were dirty when Simmons _met_ him, they’re even worse now. How could they not be? If Simmons’ pants still smell like _piss_ and his socks lost their ‘nice socks’ title, then how could Grif’s clothes survive? His stupid orange-brown-something shirt has tears and holes all over the place, stains that Simmons doesn’t want to figure out and it’s only barely orange if you _squint_.  
  
“To get to the train,” Locus says, voice low and creepy and yeah, they’re dead. Definitely. Simmons wishes that maybe he was one percent as scary as Locus’ rumbling, growling voice. Then _maybe_ he and Grif wouldn’t have been snatched up by those Wastrels before. Maybe Grif wouldn’t have dared to be _Grif_ when they first met.  
  
God, Simmons wants to be scary.  
  
“To get to the train,” Locus repeats, because apparently Grif’s attention wandered, which is good because Simmons’ sure as fuck did too, “We must go through the city. Many cities,” he explains, slowly, piece by piece. Because Grif is an idiot. “They will _not_ let us go through the city in dirty clothes. We must blend in. Understood?”  
  
Grif wipes drool from his chin, and Simmons hurriedly drops his own hand to wipe his fingers against his shirt, because what if he accidentally drooled on them, too?  
  
“Whatever,” Grif says, “but I’m _not_ taking a bath!”  
  
Locus stares down at them both.

 

* * *

The lake is only barely more than a pond, looks  _ super _ questionable and has two depressing looking water lilies drifting in it. 

  
Grif sounds like an enraged ghoul fucked a demonic cat, and Simmons _really_ doesn’t want to get into the water. It’s enough that Locus is _wrestling Grif into it_. It’s enough that Grif is struggling so much, Simmons could probably _surf_ on the _waves_ he’s making. If he knew how to surf. And if he had a board. Surfers use boards, right?    
  
But if Locus is willing to wrestle Grif into the ice cold water, clothes and all because, he guesses, it would be too difficult to wrestle Grif out of them too (thank fuck for that. Simmons doesn’t _want_ to see how dirty Grif is under his dirty clothes, thanks) then he will probably just drown Simmons if he doesn’t join them.  
  
He really doesn’t want to get undressed though.  
  
Simmons wants to get clean, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s a Downer, not a Wastrel, not a _Grif_. He likes being clean. Clean is good. But clean is only _nice_ if you can do it where no one else sees.   
  
Simmons chews on his nails again. Grif still sounds like a really weird, angry monster and Locus is only grunting a little bit. He has to be so, so strong to barely even struggle. Grif is fighting harder than at the cage fight, which, what the fuck? That was their _lives_ at stake. But getting clean is worse? Somehow?  
  
Simmons got knobbly knees and sharp elbows and way too many freckles, all over. He’s going to _reflect light_ if he strips down, he’s sure of it. Grif and Locus, as nasty or scary as they are, just. Look less like they were locked up in a lab their whole lifes, alright? And Simmons doesn’t _want_ to know what Locus looks like naked, okay, it’s creepy and Simmons would have to go and die in a _hole_. Because Locus is scary and huge and terrifying, but he also very obviously got _real actual muscles_ under all his. Stuff. Clothes. Brooding expressions.  
  
Simmons can’t get undressed. He _can’t_. But he also wants to get clean, but he doesn’t want his clothes to get wet. Except, well. His pants smell like piss. His white shirt with its missing buttons is, well. Not. White. Anymore.  
  
Also Locus is in the lake with all of his clothes on, too. But that might have more to do with the fact he had to literally ambush-attack Grif into the water. Water that doesn’t exactly look clean, but it’s better than nothing, right?  
  
Simmons stares dumbly at the angry demon that is Grif, and the very stubborn, mountain of a man wrestling said demon. He doesn’t know what to _do_ , but he has to decide quickly or--  
  
Locus dunks Grif’s head under water. Locus glares at Simmons.  
  
Simmons squeaks and steps into the water before he can think, except where he stepped is apparently the _one spot_ in the lake where it’s just a big fucking hole, and so Simmons steps out and immediately falls in, whole body. Mouth open. Limbs flailing.  
  
He wanted to take _one step_. Instead he ends up completely underwater, in the deepest part of it, and he’s going to die, he got _water_ in his mouth and all of his clothes are so heavy and everything is bad, bad, _bad!  
  
_ Someone yanks him back up. Simmons splutters, gags, coughs. He’s pretty sure he just fucking spat out a frog. Maybe a fish. He wheezes.  
  
Locus glowers at him, but lets go of Simmons’ wrist just in time to snatch Grif again. Grif’s attempt to escape was probably super valiant, but Simmons was too busy trying not to _drown_ to admire it. As it is, he is also too busy trying to spit the gross lake-water taste out of his mouth to enjoy Locus basically suplexing Grif back into the water. Grif screams before the water effectively shuts him up.  
  
Simmons is _very_ happy Locus hasn’t killed him. Yet. It’s totally a matter of time, but not _yet_ , because he wouldn’t be surprised if the way Locus flexes will one day mean those stupid muscles rip right through his stupid jacket. They’re. Big. Those biceps.  
  
At least Locus didn’t get to see just how thin and bony Simmons was. At least Locus only got to see Simmons almost drown himself taking _one_ step into this stupid, totally polluted lake.  
He misses Joy. So much.  
  
“I don’t feel clean,” Simmons says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, but he also needs to say _something_.  
  
Locus grunts. Locus is holding Grif in some weird, complicated form of chokehold to wash Grif’s hair.  
  
“ _I DON’T WANT TO!”_ Grif shrieks, flailing about. Locus doesn’t even _blink_ when what’s basically a tsunami hits him right in the face. He _does_ blink when one flailing fist connects with his chin, but only barely. But even from where Simmons is standing, Grif looks cleaner. It feels like a Christmas miracle. Somewhat. Kind of. Not at all, actually, but Simmons finds himself still _fascinated_.  
  
“I thought you had _moles_ ,” he tells Grif. Grif stops flailing and stares at Simmons in confusion, and Locus seems to speed up his cleaning attempt even more than before.  
  
“What? Why?” Grif asks. It’s like he just forgot, somehow, that Locus is force-bathing him. Maybe he actually did- he is _insane_ , after all. Locus sure is using the peace to get as much done as possible.  
  
“Wh- you were dirty! The dirtiest human I’ve ever seen! How could I _not_ think you had moles!?”  
  
“Uh, because that’s dumb?”  
  
“It’s not dumb! How was I supposed to know you are _so_ dirty that-!”  
  
“Done,” Locus says. He abruptly releases Grif. Grif just stands there, in shock maybe. Or maybe not.  
  
Probably not. Because there’s a _glint_ in Grif’s eyes now, and he’s looking right at Simmons and that’s not fair. Simmons wasn’t the _walking dirt pile_. Simmons didn’t give the dirt pile a _bath_.  
  
Simmons takes a step back.  
  
“Don’t,” he says, and almost whips out the knife. But Locus is still there, even if Locus is busy cleaning his stupidly long hair and might not actually object to Simmons stabbing Grif just this one time. Grif _did_ punch him. Probably more than once, actually, considering how he flailed about.  
  
Grif grins.  
  
Simmons isn’t good with water. On land he would _totally_ be able to outrun Grif because Grif is a lazy fatass, but now they’re in a lake with gross, soft mud at the bottom that kind of feels like it’s holding onto Simmons’ feet every time he tries to take a step.  
  
Which means that when Grif charges- Grif who doesn’t seem at all like he is being hindered by the gross mud- Simmons is dunked under before he can do much else but scream.  
  
When he manages to resurface, Grif is cackling and Locus is watching with twitchy lips, and what. What the _fuck_. Simmons doesn’t know if he is more outraged about Grif being an _asshole_ than flabbergasted that Locus is kind of doing an. Expression? Like, there’s. His lips are moving. Upwards. It’s _weird_ , and Simmons gasps and gags and he isn’t sure if he is flushed from catching his breath or just. Lips.  
  
Locus could almost be smiling, except that’s _impossible_.  
  
“I win,” Grif smugly says, and throws his wet hair back. It instantly smacks him in the face, and Simmons is happy that karma works for Grif, too, and not just for fucking up Simmons’ entire life.  
  
“Win what? There was _nothing_ to win!”  
  
Grif sniffs.  
  
“That’s because you’re a stupid _idiot_ , idiot,” Grif tells him like that makes _sense_. Simmons wants to yell at him, but the closest he gets out is like. Angry. Spitting sounds. It only makes Grif cackle again, and Locus turns his back to them and continues cleaning his hair.  
  
Why does both of them have long hair, anyway? Is it a Wastrel thing? Downer thing? Crazy, scary people thing? Because Simmons is a Downer, but _his_ hair is short. Isn’t that more logical too, out here? In the fucking _wastelands?  
  
_ Wait, that’s it. Logic. No one is logical out here. Not even Locus. Locus is faking logic pretty well, of course, but _logically_ he would be way better off if he just. Abandoned Grif. So Locus isn’t logical, and that’s why he got long hair.  
  
That’s a good enough answer.  
  
“ _You_ are an idiot,” Simmons snaps at Grif, and then tries to stomp his way out of the water. It’s still gross and muddy, though, and he almost falls face first _twice_ before he, finally, gets out of it. Considering how much sound is behind him, he is assuming stupid, idiot, weirdo Grif is following him. Hopefully Locus isn’t.  
  
As long as Grif doesn’t tackle him back in, Simmons decides to not care.  
  
And then there’s the click of a gun from a bush, and Simmons freezes.  
  
“What are you filthy, no-gooders, lazy layabouts doing on _my_ lands!?” the bush growls in the most stereotypical, angry southern voice Simmons has ever heard.  
  
“Urgh,” Grif says, “ __Sarge. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! My computer broke, and took a month to get fixed. And then I have been struggling to get back into writing. However, here it is! An update! 
> 
> RIP Grif's dirty germs, but I for one will happily welcome Somewhat Cleaner Grif.


End file.
